An Eye of the Fleet

the large fo'c's'le was secured by one hatch he herded them below. Under the guns of Cyclops three cables distant they went resentfully but without resistance.

Price, having possessed himself of the ship had a man run up British colours and set his men to securing and repairing the mainsail. The privateer's officers were confined in the cabin aft and a marine sentry put on guard. Next the lieutenant turned two of the quarter guns inboard to sweep the deck and had them loaded with grapeshot. The keys of the magazine were secured and the vessel's details passed down into the waiting longboat for return to Cyclops.

With a damaged mainsail Price was limited to the gaff foresail and a staysail but he set course and trimmed the sheets. In twenty-three minutes the privateer Algonquin of Newport, Rhode Island, operating under letters of marque from the Continental Congress was seized by His Britannic Majesty's Navy.

The blue-coated man remained on deck. He was staring at the frigate that had taken his ship from him. The distance between the two vessels was increasing. He banged his fist on the rail then turned to find the British Lieutenant at his elbow.

'I am sorry, sir, to be the agent of your distress, but you are operating illegally under the authority of a rebel organisation which does not possess that authority. Will you give me your parole not to attempt to retake this ship or must I confine you like a felon?' Price's courteously modulated Welsh voice could not disguise his mistrust of the silent American.

At last the man spoke in the colonial drawl.

'You, sir, are the practitioners of piracy. You and all your country's perfidious acts and tyrannous oppressions be damned! I shall give you no parole and I shall take back my ship. You are outnumbered and may rest assured that my men will not take kindly to you confining them forward. You will get little sleep lootenant, so you think on that and be damned to 'ee!'

Blue coat turned away. Price nodded to Hagan who, with two marines, roughly urged the commander below.

Price looked about him. The sail repair was progressing. Midshipman Drinkwater and the two quartermasters had organised the deck, the tiller was manned and the course set for the Channel. Lieutenant Price looked astern. Cyclops was already only a speck on the horizon, resuming her cruise. He felt lonely. During his eight years at sea he had been prizemaster on several occasions but the prizes had invariably been docile, undermanned merchantmen. True their masters and crews had resented capture but they had given little trouble in the face of armed might.

In the dreary years of the war with the Americans the British had learned their opponents possessed an almost unfair capacity for seizing opportunities. True their generalissimo, Washington, continually faced mutiny in his own army, but when the British might be caught at a disadvantage the damned Yankees would appear like magic. Burgoyne had found that out. So had St Leger. Even when the greatest American tactician, Benedict Arnold, changed sides, the laconic British High Command learned too late the value of such talents.

The fate of Lieutenant Price was sealed in that same restless energy. He was surprised, even in death, that men of his own race could treat his humanity with such contempt.

For two days Algonquin steered south east to pass south of the Scillies before hauling up Channel. The big mainsail had been repaired and hoisted. Drinkwater took a keen interest in the sailing of the schooner. Unfamiliar with the qualities of fore and aft rig he was fascinated by her performance. He had no idea a vessel could move so fast with a beam wind and listened with interest when the two quartermasters fell to arguing as to whether it was possible to sail faster than the wind itself. Indeed the fears planted by Blackmore were withering as Nathaniel experienced the joys of independence.

The weather remained sunny and pleasant, the wind light but favourable. The Americans appeared in small groups on deck forward for daily exercise and Sergeant Hagan and his marines saw to the policing of the schooner.

The American mates gave little trouble, remaining confined in one cabin whilst the privateer's commander was locked in the other. They were allowed on deck at different times so that one or other of them was usually to be seen standing close to the mainmast shrouds during daylight.

The principal stern cabin had been seized by Price and the midshipmen whilst the seamen and marines used the hold tween decks for accommodation. This space had been intended to house the crew of prizes taken by the Algonquin.

By the evening of the second day Price had relaxed a little. An hour earlier one of the American sailors had asked to see him. Price had gone forward. A man had stepped out and asked if they could provide a cook since the food they were receiving was making them ill. If the 'lootenant' would agree to this they would promise to behave.

Price considered the matter and agreed they could supply a cook but that no further relaxation of their regimen could be allowed. He estimated his position to be some ten leagues south of the Lizard and hoped to stand north the following day and make Falmouth.

But that night the wind fell light and then died away altogether. As dawn filtered through it revealed a misty morning. The schooner lay rolling in the water as a lazy swell caused her blocks to rattle and her gear to chafe.

When Price was called he was in a passion at the change of weather. By noon there was still no sign of wind and he had the big gaff sails lowered to reduce chafe. The hands were engaged with this work as the American cook went forward, a pot of stew in his hands.

Drinkwater was standing right aft. As the big mainsail was lowered he hove in the slack of the sheet and coiled it down.

There was a sudden scream from forward.

The marine sentry, bending down to open the companionway for the prisoners' cook had had the boiling contents of the pot dashed into his face.

In a trice the American had picked up the marine's musket and threatened the four seamen lowering the foresail. For a split-second every man on Algonquin's deck was motionless then, with a whoop, the Americans were pouring aft. They hurled themselves at the unarmed seamen as the latter let go the halyards, they pulled belaying pins from the rail and rolled aft, a screaming human tide. The foresail came down in a rush, adding to the confusion.

The seamen forward were quickly overpowered but further aft Hagan had got several marines to present. The muskets cracked and three Americans went down. Lieutenant Price lugged out his hanger and leapt for the lanyard of the starboard quarter gun. He tugged it. A flash and roar emanated through the fog as the grape cut a swathe through friend and foe. Momentarily the human tide was stemmed. Then it rolled aft again.

Drinkwater remained rooted to the spot. This was all a dream. In a moment the fog would clear and Algonquin become her ordered self again. A pistol ball smacked into the rail beside him. He saw Price, mouth drawn back into a snarl, whirling the slender hanger. One, two rebels received its needle point in their bodies then, with a sickening thud, a handspike whirled by a giant half-caste Indian split the lieutenant's skull.

Drinkwater suddenly felt inexplicably angry. Nothing could withstand the furious onslaught of the Americans. He was dimly aware of struggling British seamen and marines being held by three or four of the privateersmen. He knew he was about to die and felt furious at the knowledge. He choked on his rage, tears leaping into his eyes. Suddenly his dirk was in his hand and he was lunging forward. The big half-caste saw him coming too late. The man had picked up Price's hanger out of curiosity. Suddenly aware of the midshipman rushing towards him he bent and held it outwards like a hunting knife.

Drinkwater remembered his fencing. As the Indian jabbed the sword upwards Drinkwater's dirk took the hanger's foible in a semi-circular parry. Taking the blade he exerted a prise-de-fer, raised his point and his own momentum forced his toy weapon into the stomach of the Indian.

The man howled with pain and surprise as they collided. Then he collapsed on top of him. For a moment Drinkwater's anger evaporated into sudden, chilling fear, a fear mingled with an overwhelming sense of relief. Then he received a blow on the head and was plunged into a whirlpool of oblivion.

When Drinkwater recovered consciousness it was several minutes before he realised what had happened. He was confused by total darkness and a regular creaking sound that terminated in a number of almost simultaneous